


Pillow Talk

by jdrush



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Humour, M/M, seriously so much fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 18:23:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20568836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdrush/pseuds/jdrush
Summary: Post-coital conversation, 221b Baker Street style





	Pillow Talk

**Author's Note:**

> RATING: R for language and sexual situations.  
SPOILERS: Little mentions for all Season 1  
DISCLAIMER: Characters still belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, BBC 1, and Moffat and Gatiss.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Just a piece of romantic fluff for Valentine’s Day. Way soppier (and less dirty) than I originally intended. Oh, well. No betas were harmed in the making of this fic.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES PART TWO: I'm slowly uploading some of my old stories to the archive. This one was originally posted on my LJ February, 2011.

Italics denote thoughts

The two men lay naked on the bed, entwined, the sweat from their passionate love-making cooling on their bodies. Sherlock was sprawled gracefully across half the bed--and his bed-mate (not that said bed-mate seemed to mind)--his head tucked under John’s chin. The doctor’s fingers were busy carding through Sherlock’s damp curls, even as Sherlock‘s were occupied tracing abstract patterns on John’s flushed skin. Up his arm, along his left shoulder, over the jagged scar of his war wound, across his chest.

John tried to figure out what Sherlock was drawing. Knowing his eccentric lover, it could be anything:

_Einstein‘s Theory of Relativity? The 1st movement of Mozart’s ‘Eine Kleine Nachtmusik’? The chemical formula for nitroglycerin? The theoretical trajectory of a bullet from a 9mm Glock G17P fired by a wheel-chair bound midget? This week’s Tesco’s shopping list?_

No, that last one was just too bizarre.

Ah, wait. The one over his chest. Repeated. A lazy smile touched John’s lips as he recognized it. A heart. He would laugh at how clichéd it was, if he hadn’t been so moved by it at the same time. Sherlock could be such a romantic sap when he put his mind to it.

It didn’t happen often, so John had learned to enjoy it for as long as it lasted.

“When did you know?” Sherlock asked, his low voice loud in the now quiet room, his finger once more repeating the heart design on John’s chest.

Maybe he had spent too much time with Sherlock Holmes, or maybe it was because he could be a romantic sap occasionally, too, but John knew what the question meant without needing further clarification. “That first night,” he replied without hesitation. “That first wild, insane night. Watching you solve the Jennifer Wilson case. You were so. . .”

“Amazing?” Sherlock cut in, a knowing twinkle in his eye.

“Very,” John agreed. “I was in awe of how your beautiful mind worked, all those brilliant mental acrobatics you performed.”

Sherlock fingers paused as he absorbed what John had just said. “You think my mind is beautiful?” he asked, intrigued.

“You know I do. Stop fishing for compliments.”

“Why should I deny you the chance to witter on about my many virtues?” Sherlock teased, his fingers resuming their formless tracings. “Tell me more.”

John exhaled a put-upon sigh. “Since you asked so nicely. I liked your smile, your laugh, your wry sense of humour. The flush of your cheeks as we chased down that taxi. The sparkle in your eyes as you pieced everything together. Your boundless energy and sense of mystery.”

“And danger,” Sherlock added.

John’s smile widened. “Yes, can’t forget that. You were like a force of nature, unlike anyone I had ever met before. Everything was so different and new, and you invited me to share it with you. A total stranger, and yet. . .I felt you knew me. There was just this instant connection. And before I knew it, I was ensnared in your web.”

Sherlock scoff-chuckled at that. “You should save your purple prose for your blog.”

“What can I say?” John commented, brushing the sweat-soaked bangs from Sherlock’s forehead. “You bring out the worst in me.”

“Funny. Mycroft thinks you bring out the BEST in me,” Sherlock murmured, sketching the heart pattern once more. “And fuck me if the infuriating bastard isn’t right.”

John snickered at that. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell him.”

“Good. I’d hate to have to find another flatmate.”

“You’d kick me out for telling Mycroft he was right about something?”

“I’ve done far worse for far less.”

“I’ll remember to stay on your good side.”

“Smart move.”

John’s fingers skated down Sherlock’s elegant neck, lingering over the enticing beauty mark on the right side of his throat. (“It’s not a beauty mark,” Sherlock had corrected him once. “It’s just a mole.” John had only responded, “Whatever. I think it’s sexy.” Sherlock never corrected him again.) The area surrounding the spot was now stained mauve from John’s overly enthusiastic worship. Wasn’t the first time that had happened. It also wouldn’t be the last. “So when did YOU know?”

Sherlock’s slender fingers slipped down to John’s hip, still drawing their vague designs, as he answered, “During ‘The Case of the Bungling Burglar’. Really, John, these names you give our cases are beyond the pale.”

“My readers don’t complain.”

“Are these the same people who consider ‘Big Brother’ a serious commentary on social mores?”

“Yes, yes, we all know you are far superior to the plebs who visit my blog,” John laughed. “Just tell me about the moment you knew you were in love with me.”

Sherlock tilted his head up so he could look at John as he replied, haughtily, “I never said I was in love with you. I believe I said I was USED to you.”

John did his best to smother the grin that threatened to touch his lips. Whichever word Sherlock chose to use, John knew what he really meant. “Oh, well. . .I’m used to you, too. Now what was your life-changing epiphany?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed as if the whole discussion was boring him to tears, that it should be so bloody obvious to John if he would only think about it. But then he remembered that wasn’t the point of this conversation. It was the intimacy, the joy of just being together that was important--the exchange of information was secondary. Pillow talk, if he recalled the popular parlance. Silly, banal, utterly useless, but John seemed to like it after sex, so Sherlock went along to make him happy. (That he had discovered his own penchant for cuddling was something Sherlock would never admit.) And although most romantic notions and trappings still eluded him, after all these months with John he WAS learning. Someday he would understand the intricate nuances of interpersonal relationships.

After all, he had plenty of time--and a good tutor.

“I had kept you up late, dragging you through Soho, looking for Jeremy Bartlett’s fence,” Sherlock began, his rich, melodious voice washing over John. “When we got back to the flat around two thirty in the morning, I helped you up the stairs to your room because you were half-asleep on your feet.”

John’s forehead crinkled in confusion. “I don’t remember that.”

“Of course you don’t,” Sherlock replied, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. “I just said you were half-asleep.”

“Oh, right. Continue.”

“A few hours later you came down to breakfast with your hair standing up on end, wearing two different slippers--never even knew people would own two pairs of slippers. . .”

“Harry isn’t very creative when it comes to Christmas gifts,” John noted.

“Considering she’s usually half in the bag. . .”

“Sherlock, be nice.”

“I WAS being nice.” The finger stopped halfway through tracing another heart. “Where was I?”

“Two different slippers.”

“Right. Wearing two different slippers, completely shagged out and ready to collapse right at the table, so I offered to make you breakfast.”

“Always an adventure.”

Sherlock huffed again, annoyed. “If you don’t want to hear this. . .”

“No, please. . .go on.”

“Well, I burnt the toast, the bacon was half-raw, the eggs were runny, the tea was ghastly. It was a bloody disaster.”

John laughed. “THAT I remember. It looked like one of your failed experiments.”

“Worse. But when I presented you with that gastronomic nightmare, you just gave me this grateful smile and said, ‘Thank you, Sherlock--you’re a true friend’.” Sherlock paused, as if even after all these months he still had a hard time believing the words. “I’ve never been called that before. Never had one, either.”

John felt his heart clench at that, wishing Sherlock was exaggerating yet knowing he wasn’t. Bastards. There were days he wanted to hunt down and hurt every last person who had ever hurt Sherlock. This was definitely one of those times. Instead, he leaned down and brushed a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head. “You do now,” he whispered, vowed.

Sherlock glanced up at John, a smirk on his lips. “Soppy git,” he said, the affection in his voice taking away the sting of the words.

“Look who’s talking--the man drawing hearts all over my chest.”

“You figured that out?” Sherlock asked, mildly surprised.

“I’m not a total idiot.”

“No, not total,” Sherlock agreed with a smile. “I wouldn’t be with you if you were a TOTAL idiot.”

John ignored the subtle (or rather, not so subtle) dig at his intellect--he was used to them by that point. “So. . .that was it? I thanked you for breakfast and you were madly in love with me?” At the jaundiced look Sherlock shot him, John quickly amended, “Ahhhh. . .you discovered that you had grown accustomed to me?”

“It was a bit more complex than that,” Sherlock replied. “As I sat there watching you eat my culinary atrocity, I realized just how deeply and completely you had invaded my life, my work, my home and for once, I didn‘t see it as an intrusion or an inconvenience. I WANTED you there. You had managed to somehow slip past every defense I had ever built around me and I didn’t mind. You accepted me for who I was. You understood me.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand you, Sherlock,” John chuckled softly, his hand tenderly threading through his lover‘s hair.

“But you TRY, and that’s a lot more than anyone else has ever done. For the first time in my life, I felt as if I belonged to this world instead of observing it from without. And in that moment, I knew that your friendship, no matter how special, would never be enough. I wanted YOU, John Watson. Everything that you are. I wanted to capture it, devour it, treasure it and hoard it and never share it with anyone.” With that, Sherlock pressed a reverent kiss to the center of the imaginary heart he had drawn and murmured into John’s chest, “So I did.”

He really hadn’t intended to confess so much, fairly certain that ‘pillow talk’ was not meant to be so serious, but Sherlock Holmes never did things by half, and rarely followed convention. And John HAD wanted to know, after all.

It was quiet for a few moments as John processed all that Sherlock had shared. Finally, he stammered an awed, “I. . .wow. I don’t know what to say.” With a nervous chuckle, he added, “Who knew that bed-hair and mismatched slippers would turn you on?”

“Oh, no--that was the day I realized I was fond of you,” Sherlock corrected. “As for turning me on, as you so delicately put it, that was much earlier.”

“How MUCH earlier?”

“I pretty much wanted to shag you senseless the first day we met, right there in Bart’s lab. Probably would have, too, if Mike hadn’t been hanging around.”

John gave Sherlock’s shoulder a playful shove. “You tosser!” he exclaimed. “I practically threw myself at you that first night we ate at Angelo’s and you gave me some rubbish about being married to your work.”

“I didn’t think it prudent to bugger my new flatmate before he had even moved in.”

“So you made me wait, what, nearly four months?!”

“That’s partly your fault,” Sherlock shot back. “You threw me off a bit with the whole Sarah Sawyer escapade. I couldn’t be sure if my advances would be welcome.”

“And of course Moriarty’s appearance didn’t help matters,” John added. “Although, his actions DID end up finally bringing us together. Maybe we should send him a fruit basket?”

“Can we PLEASE not talk about that cretin while we’re in bed?” Sherlock whinged. “He’s not exactly conducive to the romantic atmosphere we’re attempting to achieve here.”

“Fine by me. So what do you want to talk about?”

“Doesn’t matter. Whatever you want.”

“Life, the universe, the number 42?” John joked.

“What’s so special about molybdenum?” Sherlock asked, perplexed.

“What?”

“Molybdenum. Number 42 on the Periodic Table. Why would you want to talk about that now?”

“No. ‘The Hitchhiker’s Guide‘.”

“Why would anyone need a guide to learn how to hitchhike? You put out your thumb and wait. And what does that have to do with the number 42?”

John shook his head sadly. “Never mind.”

Sherlock‘s brow furrowed in thought for a moment before comprehension set in. “Ah! A pop culture reference.”

“Quite a famous one, yes. I’ll explain it sometime. Or we can just watch the movie.”

The restless fingers were back, painting invisible shapes on John’s skin. “I can hardly wait,” Sherlock deadpanned.

“You might be pleasantly surprised. And who knows, you might even enjoy yourself.”

“I’m enjoying myself right now.”

“So am I. Would you play that for me someday?”

“What’s that?”

John nodded towards Sherlock’s hand. “ ‘A Little Night Music’, right?”

Sherlock looked up at John and smiled. The doctor’s deduction skills still had a long way to go. “Not even close. Good try, though.”

John wasn’t deterred by the patronizing tone--just one more thing he had learned to accept living with Sherlock. “I’d still like to hear it sometime.”

“I can do that,” Sherlock pledged, pushing up slightly and sliding along John’s body until his face was directly above his lover’s. “Or some Vivaldi? Saint-Saens? Jules Massenet?”

“Sounds lovely,” John answered, running a thumb along Sherlock’s lush lower lip. “A private concert.”

Sherlock nipped at John’s thumb. “Just for you.”

“Not at three in the morning.”

“You’re so pedestrian, John,” Sherlock remarked fondly, pressing his mouth to John’s.

The kiss they shared was long and languid, Sherlock’s sinful tongue looping lazy circles around John’s, teasing, flicking, flirting. The hunger and impatience they felt earlier in the evening had burned off, leaving only warmth and devotion and--though Sherlock was loathe to say it--love.

As they parted, Sherlock glanced down at John, his pale eyes aglow with affection for this extraordinary man. “A true friend,” he whispered.

John ran a gentle, caressing hand down Sherlock‘s exquisite cheek. “Always,” he promised.

Sherlock kissed the palm before dropping his head back onto John’s chest, a comforting, familiar weight. John was just starting to fall asleep when he suddenly felt something warm and wet lapping at his skin, outlining the same maddening heart-shaped design.

Almost afraid of what he would discover, John cracked an eye open and asked, cautiously, “Sherlock, what are you doing?”

“Sampling the taste of your skin, post-coitus,” Sherlock answered, as if it was PATENTLY obvious, even to someone of John’s intellect. “This seemed a most opportune time to collect data.”

John just smiled tolerantly. THAT was the Sherlock he knew and adored. And while odd, it wasn’t even CLOSE to the weirdest thing Sherlock had ever done--in bed or out of it. With a final kiss to John’s chest, Sherlock began licking patterns along his lover’s body.

Again, John tried to guess what they could be, though he had to admit that Sherlock’s tongue was slightly more distracting--and arousing--than his fingers had been:

_The Pythagorean Theorem? The 2nd act of ‘Macbeth’? The floor plans to 10 Downing Street? The lyrics to The Beatles’ ‘Yellow Submarine‘? The guest list for the upcoming royal wedding?_

No question about it--John was losing his mind. And it was all Sherlock’s fault.

“So, what have you discovered?” he asked, curiosity getting the best of him.

“That your piquancy is quite heady,” Sherlock mumbled against John’s skin. “Intoxicating.” Another lick, a bone-deep shuddering sigh. “Exhilarating.”

“And you plan on doing this for a while?“

“Hmmmm. . .” was the only response John received, as Sherlock’s mouth was too busy with other endeavors to provide more information.

John was able to handle the attention for a minute or two, but when the tongue reached his ribs, he started giggling uncontrollably and swatted at Sherlock’s head. “Stop that,“ he commanded in between the laughter. “It tickles.”

“But it’s for science,” and John could swear he heard the pout in Sherlock’s voice.

“I don’t care. I’m not one of your experiments.”

“Since when?” Sherlock countered.

“And besides, I have to be at work in a few hours.”

“Your point being. . ?” The tongue moved lower, past John’s stomach, its intentions quite clear.

“I need some sleep,” John protested, weakly, already losing the battle.

“After round two,” Sherlock purred. “I want you in me again.” John moaned softly, his cock twitching at just the thought. Sherlock felt it, too, and leered up at him. “Seems I’m not the only one.”

No, lord help him, John wanted nothing more than to take Sherlock again, to thrust once more into that accommodating body, to ride him hard and fast, to hear those passionate cries fill the room and wake the neighbors. Nothing in the world was like making love to Sherlock. But at his age? Twice in one night was a rarity. Twice in an hour--a pipe dream. “Oh, God, yes,” he breathed, his hips shifting reflexively. “But I should warn you there’s a high probability that won‘t happen tonight.”

Sherlock paused, contemplating the tableaux before him and smiled slyly. “Improbable, but not impossible,“ he proclaimed confidently as his mouth descended over John’s stirring cock.

John sighed contentedly as his hand tangled once more in Sherlock’s curls, gently guiding his actions. Sinking into the mattress he could feel himself harden under Sherlock’s skillful ministrations and grinned, knowing that the great detective had once again deduced the situation masterfully.

_Oh, well. . .I’m sure Sarah won’t mind if I’m late for my shift._

_Again._

THE END


End file.
